III – The Calm Before

Longhouses cover the white expanse. Half-built ships stretch for miles along the shoreline. The majestic forest is gone, its slenderest remains fueling barracks stoves, its thickest trunks the backbones for Caesar’s growing fleet of flat-bottom boats.

Roman victory kills more than those on the battlefield. Like locusts, the legions consume everything. They slaughter livestock and leave those unfit for enslavement to starve.

Decurion Servius marches through the snow, his furry boots crunching in the pre-dawn twilight. He quickens his pace as the frigid air, a relentless adversary, lashes at him beneath his wool tunic and pants. His only ally against the elements is the full beard that took many months to grow. Irksome throughout autumn, it now shields his face from the bitter cold. Another ally, one he could do without, are the golden coils atop his head. They keep the ears warm, which is why he hasn’t had them shorn.

Skipio kicks snow from his leather boots at his barracks door, its thump echoing in the ghostly stillness. Cold weaves through the air, freezing all sounds but for Luna. His gallant white mare emits a soft whinny from the adjacent stables. Her name comes from the gray quarter-moon between her eyes, a shady patch his mother says makes her a sacred gift to the huntress Diana from her uncle, Neptune. The ripe mix of hay and horse takes him back to the day he left for schooling in Mediolanum as a young man. The ivory horse had raced alongside the carriage until the Servian plantation’s outermost wall halted her way.

Skipio enters the cabin and savors its weak warmth.

Heavy incense masks the stink of a long-eaten rabbit, but his bunkmates’ tolerable body odor lingers. Their cramped space houses three cots, the middle billet hosting a lump of layers that conceal his old friend, Planus. His third roommate, Titus, sits upon a stool and huddles over a concrete fire bowl, his nappy beard collecting bits of light.

“Servius Tribune departed camp before dawn, seeking another forest,” he says of his father.

“Haven’t we enough ships?” asks Titus.

“Five legions, thousands of cavalrymen,” Skipio sheds his furs and joins him within the heated space. “We can’t get there on a few biremes,”

“His preferred mode of travel,” teases the blanketed Planus.

Titus frowns at the lump on the cot. “I don’t like penning my horse below a deck.”

“She’s a better swimmer than you.” Layers tumble as Planus sits up and reveals himself. “At least these ships have flattened bellies,” he adds, hair blackening his jawline.

Titus puts his hands together in prayer. “Let’s pray Fortuna provides us a beach upon which to land.” He shivers then and shifts his attention to Skipio. “How much snow fell overnight?”

“No more than yesterday.” Skipio pulls off his boots. “The shipbuilders have already brushed most of it from their planks.”

“You think Labenius will let the builders stay?” asks Titus.

“Ha! The same man who drove us to slaughter migrating innocents?” Planus thinks not. “He’ll work those craftsmen to death and then put them on the first boat out.”

Titus and Skipio, their eyes meeting, share a silent understanding; no man is more suitable for senatorial service than Gaius Planus Caesar, whose prowess on the battlefield pales in comparison to his social conscience.

The flaming wood crackles, daring Skipio. He touches the fire bowl’s searing rim and recoils with a smirk.

“You know it’s hot enough to burn,” Titus scolds.

“Yes,” Planus says. “That’s why he touches it.”

Titus asks, “Any word on that well-dressed Gaul from Britannia?”

“Mandubracius is his name,” says Planus.

“He claims he’s royal,” Skipio tells Titus.

Planus hums. “All I know is that he brought Kombius back.”

Skipio and Titus share a grin before Titus turns to Planus, careful to keep his blankets on his shoulders. “Your thirst for lemon-haired Gauls is quenchless.”

Skipio tests his mettle against the bowl’s heat, the dull ache in his fingertips exciting his senses. “They took this Kombius hostage and released him on last ides. That tribal prince returned with him and gave my father an account of the main river,”

Titus watches Skipio gingerly tap the scalding trim.

“I wouldn’t trust a traitor.”

“He betrays no one in his mind, as his people serve a new king.” Planus stretches with a yawn. “His royal rudeness is why we’re working through winter.”

Bulky and bearded, the gravelly-voiced Briton sleeps in a grand tent near Caesar’s cabin. He bathes nightly in an iron tub filled with hot water provided by the locals. After filling his belly with Roman wine, he tells anyone willing to listen of his desire to reclaim his position. Planus, being a relative of Caesar, often dines with the upper ranks. He finds the new Briton surprisingly uncouth, considering his alleged proclamation as ‘King of the Trinovantes.’

Planus smiles, “He was appalled when the goose arrived.”

“You dined on goose?” Titus sulks.

Skipio, glowering, fills his cup with lavender tea.

“We ate rabbit, again.”

“Oh, imagine our Prince’s horror if we served him a rabbit,” Planus chuckles. “His tier of islanders does not eat rabbit, goose, or chicken.”

Titus furrows his brow. “How does one regard such a tasty bird as unappetizing?”

“It’s not about taste,” says Planus. “To the Gauls, all fowl are sacred.”

Skipio spits a mouthful of tea onto the coals and holds his face over the steam. “They’ve no issue raising them to kill each other for sport.”

“You’re telling me chick and hare populations run unchecked in Britannia?” Titus huffs a laugh. “It’ll be a paradise for the camp trappers.”

“No, I suspect only royalty and the religious abstain,” Planus clarifies. “Common people get hungry, and hungry people eat what’s common.”

“Speaking of hunger,” Titus hugs himself against the chill and regards Skipio. “How goes our Castor?”

“Castor’s got a new lover,” Planus says.

Skipio tells them, “And I’m happy for him.”

Titus and Planus make eye contact before sharing a hearty laugh.

“I am happy for him,” he reiterates, staring them down.

Planus scoots to the end of his bed, pulling the covers to his chin. “You don’t miss catching him unawares?”

“I’ve no use for a man who fears my desires,” says Skipio.

Titus wonders, “Perhaps women are more inclined to your brutal lusts?”

Skipio’s grimace makes both men crow.

“When did you start hating women?” Titus laughs.

“He doesn’t hate women,” Planus explains. “He just doesn’t like their splits and breasts.”

“Big tits are wonderful,” Titus sermonizes. “I’d think you like punching them.”

“Teats are tasty,” Skipio admits, “so long as they’re not attached to flabby bags.”

“How now!” Planus wags a finger. “That’s no way to speak of the esteemed Pompey’s ample chest!”

Titus and Skipio bare their teeth in joy at that one, as Planus scratches his bedhead into something manageable.

“I warned that boy,” Titus confesses after a beat. “Castor was wise enough to earn a seat before our instructors, yet stupid enough to ignore my words about you.”

“You spoke ill of me?” Skipio mopes.

“We’ve all spoken ill of your violent carnality,” says Planus.

Titus simpers, “I bet he thought he could change our Skipio.”

“Change him, indeed,” Planus giggles like a child. “As if Skipio’s shat his pants.”

Even Skipio finds humor in this notion.

“The first time Castor showed up at muster, bruised and crying,” Titus recalls. “I knew his time with you wouldn’t last.”

“I’m an acquired taste,” Skipio brags.

“Indeed,” says Planus. “A rare few develop a taste for a punch in the face.”

Titus yawns. “Does your father know?”

“I do not discuss my sexual habits with Vitus,” says Skipio.

Titus says, “My father took me to my first brothel.”

“Yes,” Skipio pinches his nose bridge. “We’ve heard this story many times.”

Planus sighs, “My father died before my virginity did.”

“Yes,” Skipio sighs. “I’ve heard that fact just as many times.”

“My taste for women must bore you two.” Titus’s eyes volley between them. “Forgive me for not regaling you with tales of being balls-deep in a clean-shaven boy half my years,”

“How now,” Planus quips. “You should seek forgiveness for regaling us with tales of being balls-deep in a clean-shaven woman, double your years.”

Skipio laughs, “Her husband wanted your woolly head on a stick.”

“He chased him an entire eight blocks,” Planus snorts.

“She claimed he worked nights,” Titus defends. “I didn’t know he worked those nights on the street outside her door.”

“I’m shocked an arrest warrant wasn’t issued,” Planus laughs.

“Speaking of warrants,” Titus pulls a blanket from Planus’s pile and drapes it over his head. “How is it our Skipio has never been arrested?”

“Not for the Servian name,” Planus assures. “Vitus would let you rot in the cells for what he doesn’t know.”

“He suspects well enough.” Skipio boasts. “At the brothel, I’m very clear about my intentions before throwing my hands,”

“Do you draw up a contract?” Planus taunts, but Skipio’s cat-that-ate-the-songbird expression rouses stern curiosity. “Do you draw up a contract?”

Titus goes wide-eyed. “Written on a scroll?”

“Verbal.” Skipio leaves the fire bowl, stripping naked but for his socks. At his bed, he pulls back the fur blankets, revealing a chubby girl no more than twelve. “I tell them what I give, and they tell me what they’ll take.” His jerking thumb orders her out, her heavy tunica falling back down over her little legs.

“How long has she been here?” demands Titus.

“You?” Planus accuses. “Honoring a catamite’s boundaries?”

“She’s been here since muster.” Skipio pulls a leather sack of dried meat and roasted nuts from the trunk beside his cot and hands it to the girl. “She warms my toilet seat and then my bed. As for my whores, I negotiate.”

The braided girl rushes to the door, a strip of jerky hanging from her mouth. “Why didn’t I think of that?” Titus asks as she departs.

“Because it’s wrong,” Planus chides. “It’s bad enough we’re conscripting her brothers and working her sisters in the shipyard.” His attention returns to Skipio. “Negotiate? You mean, wear them down until you get what you want?”

“Male whores cannot be worn down.” Skipio slips into his bed and relishes the warmth left behind by the fat child. “Novices like Castor, though, let you get away with enough to keep it exciting.”

Titus looks at Planus. “Why is he like this?”

“He’s always been industrious,” Planus shrugs. “Kicking the shit out of a man before you rut him takes work.”

Skipio’s eyes grow heavy. “I’ve yet to find a man with enough fight in him to satisfy me.”

“Most men hear the story of Pluto and Proserpina and learn what not to do.” Planus lies down, pulling the covers over his head. “Skipio hears the same story and uses it as a guide.”

“Novices are fun at first,” Skipio mumbles sleepily, “but soon become tiring.”

Planus says, “You mean, they soon tire of you?”

“No one tires of me,” Skipio boasts, sleep taking hold.

Titus wonders, “How do you not tire of yourself?”

*

Spring unfurls with warmer days, yet the nights persist in their chilly embrace. The absence of trees amplifies the pollen, creating a vibrant, almost violent, burst of blooms that paint the landscape a riot of colors, obscuring the grasslands and polluting the air with heady scents.

In this transformative era, Proserpina reunites with her mother, Ceres. Cooks diligently prepare rations, craftsmen tirelessly forge armor plates, and legionnaires, their beards shorn and hair cropped, restart their spirited drills while Sol traverses rainy skies.

The days grow long by mid-summer, allowing Skipio and Planus to lead their turmae horses to greener pastures. Captives and workhorses drag completed ships to shore while an influx of Gaul youths, choosing service over labor, swells the cavalry ranks. Titus, training a new batch of archers, tragically loses his second. A man of remarkable skill, the centurion broke his hip after a snake startled his horse and made the beast throw him.

His accident leads the camp to buzz with heavy anticipation over who might fill this vacant position.

The answer comes in the form of Terentius Drusus Valerian, a young man whose extensive equine knowledge impresses Skipio. After the young man becomes Castor’s lover, though, Skipio’s pleasant conversations around the watch fire with him cease. Gossip abounds among the cavalry when Decurion Servius seems indifferent. Despite many subtle observations from Planus, the master of verbal nets, Skipio maintains a dispassionate show.

Summer’s final month finds the legions sailing for Britannia. Rome’s flotilla contains eight hundred ships, some captained by profiteers and slavers. Titus sails seven days out with the merchants and traders, leaving Drusus to lead his turma on the crossing. Skipio joins his men with Planus’s and the archers, leading them onto the same ship with hundreds of others. It’s close quarters, and before long, he happens upon his former lover and Drusus, their fingers threaded and foreheads touching.

Such tenderness turns Skipio’s stomach. It’s not jealousy—he simply cannot give and accept affection like most men. He knows in his heart that there’s nothing wrong with him; not everyone lusts delicately. Someday, he’ll find a man capable of desiring his brutality, and the brothel will most certainly charge Skipio a fortune to take him home.

The flotilla departs Portus Itius, and Skipio, a horseman long before arriving at these wars, is nose blind to their shit. Still, he praises the engineers for designing a trough that runs the length of the ship. Below this ditch, the lowest ranks shove flat-iron brooms from bow to stern, pushing dung out through openings in the rear.

An attentive decurio, Skipio forgoes rest on this six-hour journey. His young Gallic charges quell their nerves by brushing the tension from their horses. The elder Romans among them say little, their brows bent with disastrous memories of the first island landing. Planus performs the same rounds on his footmen and Drusus, with the archers, before both convene with Skipio.

“You think they’ll be waiting for us?” asks Drusus.

“The tribes greeted Caesar on his last landing.” Skipio eyes Planus impishly. “Hundreds of thousands, all ready to chop our horse’s legs for stew and take a Roman head to decorate their chariots.”

“Don’t tell the boy such things,” Planus scolds, then cuffs the anxious Drusus about the neck. “The beheadings are true, dear boy, but a Gaul, no matter where his birth, would sooner eat a man than a horse.”

Laughter ripples through Skipio’s youthful squad.

“Repelling a legion is hungry work,” Planus needles further, winking at Skipio. “And we Romans are rather tasty,”

More laughter comes from older ranks as Drusus shakes his head. “Castor warned me about you two.”

“Fear is normal,” says Planus. “But the natives aren’t monsters, Drusus, they’re men,”

“If the druids we faced are any indication,” Drusus says, “they’re also master strategists.”

“Not every islander is a druid,” Skipio says.

“Indeed,” adds Planus. “And not every druid is a man,”

Drusus seems bothered by this. “Will there be more women on the battlefield?”

“They’ve something to fight for,” says Skipio, nodding. “Just like their sons,”

Drusus fingers his horse’s mane.

“I want a chariot from Britannia.”

“Minus the painted warrior driving it?” asks Planus.

Drusus leans onto his horse. “I had a dream that I swam from the continent in my armor and helmet. But I lost my helmet, and didn’t drown until I came ashore.”

Skipio and Planus exchange soulful looks.

“We’ll be touching sand soon,” Skipio teases. “So hold your breath.”

Drusus follows him to a port-side piss hole, and through it, a landmass looms within a veil of hot sea mist.

“How does it look?” Planus yells up at them.

“Fuckable,” says Skipio.

Laughter cuts through the hold, but Drusus doesn’t smile.